Mr Raj and his Most High
by Dare she says it
Summary: Kartik babble.


This, I'm afraid is a work of boredom, and I suggest to you if you have **no tolerance for babble**, then turn your back, and flee for the hills while the opportunity is still present. I dedicate this to a friend, who has been requesting to see this one-shot in ff. net, and has finally gotten through to me (much to the misery of those who happen upon this). For those who are wondering about Heart over Ambition, I have yet to decide how the next course of events are to unfold, so do forgive me for the lack of updates (besides, there are much better fics out there! P). Once again, I own nothing you recognize. **THIS IS BABBLE. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.**

* * *

"Honestly Kartik! Have you gone mad?" Gemma inquires of me fiercely in a hiss, as I take one of her reluctant hands in mine, and pull her with me, deep into the alarmingly busy streets of Chelsea. "At least twenty people were staring at us!" She spat, glaring.

"I didn't lift your bloody skirt," I retort, equally cross, "And it's Raj, remember?" I add angrily, accidentally knocking a passer-by hard on the shoulder.

Gemma gives a faint, but derisive snort at my new alias.

"Yes Raj, I'll thank you not to have all my coachmen scared to death by threatening them at knife point!"

Childish as it is, I roll my eyes.

"I had my reasons," I say simply, avoiding the need to offer any further explanations, and Gemma positively flares.

"Such as? Could you have possibly taken his 'Good day to you, miss' as some scarcely oblique message saying, 'the Rakshanna will have your curls,'"

"This is not some trite matter that you can make folly out of, Miss Doyle!" I harp, enunciating Miss Doyle carefully and icily in the hopes that Gemma will stop splitting her sides over my morning's terrible blunder, "I know the Rakshanna, and they will stop at nothing, absolutely nothing-"

"To have me killed," Gemma finishes my hearty sermon tiredly with a dark, and unsettling look in her eyes, "I know, I know, but it can't help if you attract attention to the pair of us every other week."

I am suddenly quiet, my pride a bit scuffed at the accusatory take of Gemma's words.

Gemma appears to take note of my silence, for she speaks again.

"Paranoia doesn't suit you at all, Mr. Raj."

* * *

"Are you sure you wouldn't want to stay for something to eat?" Gemma requests of me worriedly for what seems like the thousandth time when the pair of us reach Ginger's stablehouse by late afternoon.

I discern her offer as a sign of charity, and again, I shake my head in definite refusal.

"No, it's quite alright. I suppose you're family would be rather ill at the sight of an Indian in a turban, dining with them and their silverware," I murmur with a bit more vehemence than I had intended.

This grates at Gemma's self-possession, and she immediately shoots her gaze elsewhere.

"It's just that…you look a little tired," She implies, teeth digging gently at her bottom lip, and I snort weakly on the inside. It is only good breeding that keeps the dear girl from muttering outright, _"You resemble a bum!"_ And though I must admit that it has been weeks since I've positively gorged myself on a meal that didn't consist of week-old bread and water, I rather Gemma not know the fine points of what it is like to be utterly penniless and with no home.

"Reserve your worries else where, I am fine." I say coldly.

"Oh don't be so stubborn," Gemma appears suddenly impatient with me, her eyes blazing and her cheeks a livid shade of red. She yanks my hand forcefully and leads me into an empty stall, adjacent to Ginger's. My lack of resistance is accounted for by my sudden amusement.

"It is just your luck that my family happens to be at stuck at some society function this afternoon," Gemma continues, grabbing a free stool, and sitting me down on it forcibly. When I make to stand, she fixes me with those startling green eyes; a warning look.

"It's the least I can do for your troubles," She argues, not meeting the brown of my eyes, and my lips twist into a half-smile. "Now will you allow this lady to show you her gratitude?"

* * *

Gemma returns to the stall quickly, her hands bearing a small rash of bacon, and a short stack of recently buttered toast. I assume these to be the morning's leftovers, but I do not utter a word of complaint.

"Thank you," I say warmly, a little shy as she sets the food before me carefully on top of another wooden stool.

"I hope you don't mind, these are all I could manage, seeing as how-" I raise a hand to stop her. She blinks at it.

"Don't. I appreciate this,"

At my response, Gemma relaxes some, shooting me one of her rare, and beautiful smiles.

I lower my head to the side momentarily, allowing my fingers to free my warm head from my turban. Dark, unruly curls tumble steadily from inside the material. They drop to prickle the space just below my shoulders, and to my dismay, Gemma bursts out laughing at the spectacle.

"What?" I snap, ready to kill, but Gemma is too beside herself to stop. She points, positively shaking, at my riotous hair, and she sputters, whilst bringing a dramatically dainty hand to her forehead, "Oh Antonio, do take me with you!"

I frown deeply, the gist of her jibe hitting me like a playful slap to the face.

"Very funny, Miss Doyle, but if this is your idea of gratitude then I do believe dining with Ginger would be most desirable," I murmur, taking my fork up as I would a knife, and Gemma, taking witness to this, quickly sobers.

"I am so sorry," She says, her hand on her stomach and her breath coming fast, "It's just, your hair, it reminds me of one of Ann's Spanish romances…well, I just meant that…it's a bit longer than I'd last seen it."

I sneer wryly at this. "Well, protecting you and evading the Rakshanna doesn't exactly allow me a moment's time to go the barber."

Gemma turns to avert the scowl in my eyes...quietly, as though in guilt, and I attempt to compensate for my crude remark by giving her a tiny smile. "Don't bother about my hair. I'll tend to it soon."

Gemma is still speechless when I've taken up my fork again.

I begin slowly popping bits of bacon into my mouth. The silence seems to stretch on...as long as time itself, when Gemma, her eyes downcast, suddenly makes the craziest of suggestions. "Let me cut your hair,"

"What?"

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" I pipe up to Gemma nervously some minutes later as she tightly wraps what looks to be an old beige duvet, over my chest, and around my neck.

"Don't you worry your fine little head, Mr. Kartik," She chirrups, adopting a slight American accent, and I feel the lightest of sweats break on my forehead.

"Have you any experience in cutting hair?"

"Well," Gemma begins, tightening the knot around my neck with unnecessary vigor, "I've pinned Ann's hair a great number of times at Spence."

This _hardly_ serves to be the bit of comfort I was looking for, and I squirm a little a bit on the stool.

"Now, lets say we get started, shall we!"

The unerving snap-snap of Gemma's scissors greets the side of my ear with all the horror of a threat promising murder.

"Just try not to snip my ears off, if you could," I quip anxiously, my dark fingers a tight, sweaty ball on my lap, and Gemma guffaws a ferocious _"Ha!"_

"And your tongue?"

"Such a lovely girl."

With a small, but gorgeous laugh, Gemma slowly uses her free hand to thoughtfully assess the length of my curls. The ends of her fingers winnow past innumerable locks, and curls, and I nearly jump out of my skin at the sudden feel of her touch on my scalp. This is, I realize with a shudder, the closest I've ever been to a person _physically_…the lowest I've ever let my guard down. Right now, if Gemma chose, she could easily take those sharp pair of scissors and jab them nastily against the back of my neck. Horrifying as the possibility is, I can't help but feel a huge spurt of trust for Gemma. She is, though it stings slightly to admit, my only friend.

Gemma's fingers stop at the left of my head. I feel her fingers form a pair of scissors, clamping pieces of my hair between their hold.

Slowly, and with all the concentration of a heart surgeon, she snips at the bit of hair. The hair falls to the stable floor, and I let go a small sigh of relief.

Gemma continues in this vain for a while, until the stool around me is encircled with thick mops of hair. She seizes my face by the sides and turns my head this way and that.

"It's a little longer here…" Gemma muses under her breath, appearing rather harassed and finicky, like an artist thoroughly dissatisfied with a certain piece, and before I can mutter an 'I think you've done enough,' she interrupts me with a quick, "Could you turn your head to the right?"

I grumble, but do as I'm told.

Gemma seems agog, and grabs at my face again, this time jerking them fiercely to my left. To my alarm, I catch a full glimpse of Gemma's décolletage as she, unsuspicious of my eyes, bends and fusses over a section of hair by my ear.

A slow, hot flush creeps to the surface of my cheeks, and I immediately shut my eyes, the image of Gemma's cleavage clear, and indelible in my mind.

"Finished!" Gemma declares suddenly, frightening me. She hands me a face mirror and works quickly to relieve my chest and neck of the stuffy duvet.

My face stares cautiously back at me from the mirror, where I can now spy my shorter, more orderly-looking hair.

"Thank you," I say, impressed, my hand twisting a curl. Gemma swipes at my shoulders hastily, and begins sweeping at the stable floor with a short, tired broom.

"I really should be the one doing the sweeping," I offer, making to grab at the broom handle, but Gemma surprisingly deflects my arm, an odd, but pleasant expression settling on her face.

"Or we could do it together. Grandmama, Father, and Tom should be back shortly, and well, two brooms are better than one, wouldn't you say?"

"I like your logic…well, we are, as you've noted before, a rather ragtag crew."

"For the sake of this floor, I certainly hope so."

I smile.


End file.
